Queens Of The Stone Age, My god is the sun, 2013. Via.
Maker of photographs. Explicit and unrepentant critic. Serendipity observer. Atheist. I live and work in Berlin, and in Los Angeles.
You may follow my endeavor on Twitter, on Vimeo, and on Instagram.
This is a little bit of why I am still looking.
Ask me anything
This is a little bit of why I am still looking.
Ask me anything
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013
Photograph by Michal Chelbin, from the book Sailboats and Swans, published by Twin Palms Publishers, 2012. Also.
I wrote an essay for The Art Book Review about this book, and I wrote about the fire. This is an excerpt;
Then I called him and I told him about the fire and I said I am taking the first train to see you. And I just left the city with what I was wearing. That night he tucked me away in his room so nobody would know I was here, and in that insipid dorm I remember we had a fight. It was terrifying. I remember thinking that this was really an asylum, waiting to devour me at the first limping attempt I would make to prove that this was all just a mistake, obviously some mis-communication, and that I was not, in fact crazy.
I eventually fell asleep from thrashing around the insufficient dimensions of his bed. In the morning I caught him licking my bruises and we fucked so we wouldn’t have to argue again.
Although the premises weren’t enclosed, there were curfews and a flock of men willing to enforce them, and of course a no-visitor policy, which obviously, we broke on his fourth day.
And with the flush we had poured on our faces with sex, we snuck out of his room. And then we fled. We ran until the clinic had disappeared and until the forest had swallowed us completely. There, the trees, the tranquility, there were no more submerging spaces, no more reasons to recall the fire nor why we were here. The day was tossing its warmth, summer finally.
And everything was just so light, the walk, the kissing. Eventually we reached the lake and there was this sailing boat and pedal boat park held by a man with middle-age manners and a particularly ancient attire, dirty fuzzy tattoos crawling up his arms.
We rented a pedal boat, shaped like a swan, bright white, elegant, ridiculous and flanked with a problematic direction. We were nothing but laughs and kisses. Pedaling in circles, making bets, recalling secrets. The swan-by-the-hour knocked the whole afternoon and when, mostly starving we thought that our sunburns had plenty surveyed that lake, we parked the bird and walked back to the clinic.
May 7, 2013
Screen captures from Google Street View, somewhere in Bulgaria, and planning a trip along the Black Sea by following roads. Everything like a film still from Stalker, and this.
May 7, 2013
Left, photograph by Thomas Prior, Untitled, 2013. Via. Right, photograph by Pawel Dudziak, The King, 2013. Via.
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When I was a little girl, growing up in France, my mother worked sewing tapestries. Some of the tapestries were exported to America. The only problem was that many of the images on the tapestries were of naked people. My mother’s job was to cut out—the genitals of men and women and replace these parts with flowers so they could be sold to americans. My mother saved all the pictures of the genitials over the years, and one day she sewed them together as a quilt and then she gave the quilt to me. That’s the difference between French and American aesthetics.
Louise Bourgeois, in conversation with Bill Beckley, On Sunday Afternoons, series of interviews over a period of three weeks, in the summer of 1997: July 20, July 27, and August 10. Via. Read more.
May 6, 2013
Drag is heavy on the signifiers: the vast constellation of accoutrements — the jewels, the gowns, and the walk — that eventually constitute Woman itself. It is this performativity, the grotesquerie of gender that is always part of the joke. Through exaggerating signifiers, drag suggests that no signified exists. The joke, it seems, is on us. We might feel that our sartorial choices are more natural, but they are still attempts to approximate an ideal. In an appearance on the Geraldo Rivera show in the early 1990s, RuPaul told the audience, “You’re born naked and the rest is drag.”
Alex Jung, Untucking “RuPaul’s Drag Race”, for the Los Angeles Review of Books, May 6, 2013.
May 6, 2013
Nathan Mabry, Heavy Handed (Tocca Ferro/Horns Up), 2013, Steel. 84×60 x 48 inches. Photo by Jason Mandella. Courtesy of Sean Kelly, New York. Via.
May 6, 2013
Top, photograph by Gene Blevins / Reuters, Flames race across hills as a raging brush fire pushes towards the coast in Camarillo, May 2, 2013. Via. More. Bottom, photographs by Sean and Seng, editorial for 032c issue 24, Summer 2013, with Ai Weiwei, Tree, 2009/2010. Via.
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I again recognized to what degree madness is something that happens only among the highest orders of humanity. That at a given moment madness is everything…Psychiatric doctors like to make a note of what you tell them, without worrying about it, and what you tell them is a matter of complete indifference to them, and they do not worry about it.
Thomas Bernhard, excerpt from Walking, 1971.
May 4, 2013
Left, Guillaume Leblon, Nouvel ange (au foulard), 2013, Plaster, cotton, 200 x 93 cm. Via. More. Right, photograph by Blommers & Schumm, from the editorial for Another Magazine, Spring/Summer 2013. Via. More.
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OPHELIA: I am Ophelia. The one the river didn’t keep. The woman dangling from the rope. The woman with her arteries cut open. The woman with the overdose. Snow on her lips. The woman with her head in the gas stove.
Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I’m alone with my breasts my thighs my womb. I smash the tools of my captivity, the chair the table the bed. I destroy the battle field that was my home. I fling open the doors so the wind gets in and the scream of the world, I smash the window, with my bleeding hands I tear the photos of the men I loved and who used me on the bed on the table, on the chair on the ground. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I wrench the clock that was my heart out of my breast. I walk into the street clothed in my blood.
FADE TO BLACK.
Heiner Müller, Hamlet/Machine, 1989/1990. Via. Read the screenplay.
May 2, 2013
Top, screen capture from The Boxer, directed by Shûji Terayama, 1977. Via. Bottom, photographs by Tyrone Williams, Untitled, 2013. Via.
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Very often you see this troubled man that a woman wants to save—unless it’s a stripper. So I found it really alluring. Going to Badlands for instance, she’s so innocent and so trusting and loving and accepts whatever he says and goes along with his reality even though he is an extremely troubled and bad person. And you just accept that she loves him and you don’t really question it. But it’s a really interesting thing to flip it and allow it to be a man with a woman. I’ve seen some distaste for that, like, why didn’t he get the fuck away from her? I’m glad, I want those questions to be raised because I see it a lot in cinema, this idea that women are supposed to accept that a man’s troubled. For instance, I was very fascinated when I was younger about Kierkegaard, and he said to Regina— the love of his life—that he was too dark to be with her. So he removed himself from her and wrote all these works like Fear and Trembling yet kept sending her manuscript after manuscript, which is like torture to this poor woman. But also being in love with someone and being like, I’ve already accepted that you’re this tortured soul and now you’re telling me that I don’t have the capacity to understand it. As if I don’t have any existential crises of my own? This idea she has to accept that he would be this way and just move on, and he would never accept her was basically what he was saying. So time after time after time narratively I kept seeing these stories of women accepting the neuroses or violence of men, the stand-by-your-man sort of idea. But never really saw it flipped on its head; so it was fun to play around with that.
Amy Seimetz interviewed by Hillary Weston about her film Sun Don’t Shine for BlackBook, April 2013. Via. More. I highly recommend you watch it.
May 1, 2013
April 29, 2013
Ma Qing, a 39-year-old bookseller, said, "I think the chance to be part of the project is a cool way for me to change a dull daily life. Besides, the air on Mars must be much cleaner and easier to breathe."
George Dvorsky, 20,000 people have already applied for the one-way mission to Mars, for io9, April 2013.
